


Come Back to Me, Witchling

by PropShopHannah



Series: Throne of Glass prompts and asks [10]
Category: Throne of Glass Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Angst, Damsel in Distress, F/M, Feels, Manorian, worried dorian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-05
Updated: 2016-12-05
Packaged: 2018-09-06 17:34:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8762494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PropShopHannah/pseuds/PropShopHannah
Summary: Anon asked: Could you write fic where Manon gets knocked out somehow and Dorian has to help/save her?





	

_ Shit shit shit shit shit _

Dorian threw himself to the ground–pulling one of the Crochan girls with him–as a clubbed wyvern tail hurled toward them. Clubbed–and covered in poison. It singed against his shield, trying to get through. But the shield held.

Dorian waited until the wyvern was forced to turn its back on them in order to mount another attack–then he struck. Sending a blast of blue flames into its rider. The witch screamed before slumping over in the saddle. He pulled the young Crochan to her feet and ran toward the nearest cellar. He hauled the door open with his magic and practically threw the girl into the arms of one of the eldest girl who’d been charged with watching over the children.

Iskra and her coven had shown up out of nowhere and caught the Thirteen off guard. 

They’d been searching the Wastes for weeks seeking out the Crochans with no sign of any movement from Morath. They’d been to dozens of villages both on and off the map and had found nothing. Nothing until they’d happened upon this village, and one of the children had screamed bloody murder upon laying eyes on Manon.

Apparently, Manon had forgotten to mention to Dorian that she was known among the Crochans as the White Demon. She held the number one spot on their kill list. If Dorian hadn’t been there to smooth things over, he was pretty sure it would have ended in disaster.

He cursed as one of the Yellowlegs bitches sliced his shoulder apart with an arrow. He’d been focusing his shield on what was in front of him– _ like Rowan had told him _ –stupidly forgetting that the enemy was all around him. 

He whirled around, ready to hurl the arrow right back at the bitch when he saw Asterin’s bull take a satisfying chunk out of the witch’s wyvern.

“Behind you,” Asterin shouted. Dorian spun on his heels–magic roaring in his ears, in his veins. Powerful. He felt powerful, as if he were born blooded with raw magic.

There was a scream, a flash of red, then yellow. 

Dorian barreled toward the human man as he tried to defend his Crochan wife and their witchling. His thin steel sword would do nothing against the Yellowlegs iron teeth and nails. Dorian threw out his magic and grabbed the Yellowlegs witch’s arms with his magic just as she lunged–not toward the man, but toward the girl in the mother’s arms.

“Witchlings are sacred you filthy bitch,” Dorian roared as he hurled the witch into the side of a building–breaking her neck. He didn’t look, didn’t stop, just tried not to think about the too familiar sound of a breaking neck as he helped pull the man from the ground, pointing toward the nearest cellar.

“ _ MANON! _ ” Asterin screamed.

Dorian started running, sprinting. Started pulling the world to him the same way he imagined Fenrys might do it. She was so far away.

Manon had been knocked off Abraxos. Three Yellowlegs on their mounts raced for her. He saw the moment she hit the ground. Heard Abraxos roaring.

_ Get up get up get up get up get up _

She did, pulling Wind-Cleaver from her back.

Something in his chest eased momentarily as he flung out his magic to shield her. She was so far away–too far away. Iskra would get to her first. Dorian could hear the bitch screaming at her sentinels to back off. That Manon was her kill.

_ Like hell, _ he thought.

He watched Manon spit blood and ready for the attack. His magic thrashed through his veins in the way it only did when Manon was in danger. It didn’t happen often.

Pain like lightning shot through Dorian’s left leg. He looked down only long enough to see an arrow run clean through his upper thigh. It wasn’t covered in poison, same as the last. He’d thank whatever gods watched over this battle for it later. He kept running. 

Iskra circled Manon, taunting her.

“Take a seat for the show, prince,” yelled the Yellowlegs bitch who’d shot hit. “It will be your last before we take you to Erawan. He has big plans for you, human.”

He’d die before he wore a collar again. Before he begged for anything again.

Rage and magic boiled inside him and Dorian paused long enough to haul up his magic and give into the calming chaos its freedom brought him. Without even thinking, he sent a razor sharp blade of ice at the bitch–a line of red appeared at her throat, her wyverns throat–then both fell off in sickening slowmotion.

Dorian didn’t let himself think about it, didn’t think the magic that now ran free and wild through his veins like a violent summer storm would let him either. He turned and ran toward Manon and–

And killing the witch had cost him. He had just enough time to extend his magic hands and push Manon to the ground as one of Iskra’s sentinels disobeyed orders and sent her wyverns clubbed tail careening for the back of Manon’s head. 

He wasn’t fast enough. Not by the way he saw Manon’s head jerk to the side as the wyvern's tail made some amount of contact with it. She hit the ground.

She did not get back up.

Dorian’s rage was a song in his blood. It was pure chaos and destruction, nothing and everything, life and death and rebirth. Infinite. Without even knowing it, he sent another razor blade of ice at Iskra and her sentinel. They went down in pieces. Their wyverns, too.

Dorian hurled himself across the open field–lost to the world, to his magic, to the fighting around him–nothing and no one mattered. The world went silent as it roared to life in his ears–

A flicker on that thread that ran through the world.

On that thread that ran between them. At once he knew where the Thirteen were, where Abraxos was and that he was now hurtling through air and sky to get to his rider. At once he knew where Manon was, knew she was alive, knew she was his–a piece that’d been missing since the dawn of time.

His whole body trembled like their first time as he threw himself to the ground beside her. 

Bleeding–blood. There was blood. Blue blood covered her face, her hair. Check. He needed to check before he moved her. Gavriel had taught him to check. His magic did the work, he barely ran a hand over her neck, her back, her spine–finally, her skull. His magic flared in warning–a crack. A crack on her skull. 

A crack that felt like it ran through the world, the universe.

_ It might as well have, _ he thought. And maybe it did.

Without any command or thought from him, his magic caressed the fracture, the tissue, the pieces of his broken other half. It poured over the injured bone like molten honey, and Dorian thought that if he closed his eyes, if he could see it, it might look like liquid starlight.

Carefully, so carefully, he turned her over. Her head rolled to the side with sickening familiarity. He caressed that thread between them. He wasn’t sure how long it’d last. How long his magic could hold him in this state–whatever it was.  _ Wherever _ it was. 

With on hand he gently cradled her broken skull, the other he circled around her back. Slowly, he pulled her up to lean against him.

He held her there, listening to her breath, watching her breathe. All pain in his leg–everything–silenced in that moment.

A peculiar blue light danced across her face like quicksilver.

A moment passed, and still his magic poured over that crack, that death blow, and knit bone back together.

He felt a tug on his being, his thread, in different directions.

Dorian looked up to see Abraxos a healthy distance away, ramming his body against an invisible wall. Dorian could see the wyvern roaring, but it was muted somehow, distant. Another tug and Dorian looked to his right. Asterin was clawing and scraping and screaming at an invisible wall. But when she saw him look at her–blue light danced and reflected in her black and gold eyes.

Dorian pulled on the thread between them. She blinked, stilled. He felt her pull back. She stared, slightly agape. She put her iron nailed hand on the invisible wall in front of her. She tugged again.

Dorian shook his head.

It wasn’t his shield. At least he didn’t think it was. He looked back at Manon, just as the magic holding the shield, the magic that connected him to everything, finally finished knitting the crack in Manon’s skull back together–and came crashing back into him like a tidal wave of flame and ice and pressure.

He cried out as he felt it barrel him, tunneling down far past the bottom of that well he usually hauled his magic up from. Then, like the slamming of a door, it was gone. He was empty, drained, like he usually was after a battle. Every bit of magic he had left tingled around the arrow still protruding from his thigh.

“What are you?” Asterin said, falling to the ground before him.

“I don’t know.”

“Your eyes,” Asterin said, not bothering to look at Dorian as she assessed her cousin. “They glowed like a god.” Dorian had no answer.

“She needs a healer,” Dorian said, slipping an arm under Manon’s legs and standing. Under any other circumstances, Dorian might have enjoyed carrying her like this. Might have done it just to piss her off. But this… she was completely limp in his arms as he carried her toward Abraxos. Her arms and legs swayed lifelessly with each of his movements. 

He thought he was going to be sick. Thought the feel of her dead weight in his arms might be his undoing.

“You saved her life,” Asterin said, helping him onto the wyvern. “I felt it,  _ her _ . Through whatever magic that was. She was dying–”

“Don’t. Please don’t.” 

Asterin dipped her chin and climbed into the saddle behind Dorian, grabbing the reigns. They were in the air a second later, hurtling for the house of the healer in the center of the main village.

“Thank you,” was all Asterin said.

Dorian said nothing as he cradled Manon’s head under his chin.

A few moments later, they descended into the partially destroyed village square. The battle was over. The Crochans were slowly coming out of their hiding places. The Thirteen gently carried the few dead and wounded into the small open area. Abraxos landed. He was the only wyvern small enough to fit within the space without the risk of knocking over a building.

Dorian ignored the pain in his leg as he jumped off the wyvern and ran toward the healer. She was already standing in front of her small mud and stone house, as if she’d been waiting. 

“Please,” Dorian said when he got to her. “Please, she needs help.” The witch surveyed them for a second, as if to weigh the truth of his words. Then she ushered them inside. 

The healer was tall, and strongly built. Her skin was darkest black, and her hair flowed down her back in thin beautifully kept locks–tied with a thin red piece of cloth. Of course she was beautiful. But there was something hard about her, too.

One of the first things they’d learned about the Crochans was that they were run by a council of elders known as the Wise Women. This woman, whose name was Greta, sat on the council. And although she was young in face and body, Dorian knew she was the eldest. Knew they all looked to her for answers and guidance. It was she who held the most sway and would be key in making an alliance with the Crochans to fight in this war.

“Put her down there,” Greta said, pointing to a low lying cot in the corner of the room. The room was small, with one cot and some supply cabinets. A healthy fire burned in the fireplace on the far wall. Dorian sat on the end of the cot, unwilling to let Manon go. Greta eyed him. As did Asterin, who was taking up the doorway.

“Is she your wife?” Greta said. Dorian eyed the witch, calculating. “Your lover then?”

“Please,” was all Dorian could think to say. He didn’t know what to call Manon. She was important to him–a part of him. But somehow calling her his lover seemed to lessen what he felt for her, and they were not married.

Greta sat on a stool in front of him, glancing at the arrow still stuck in his leg. She stared into his eyes, as if searching for an answer to a question she had not asked. Her eyes softened.

“Young one, I don’t know what happened to you, but if you want me to help the woman you love, you need to let her go.”

“I can’t,” he said. He hadn’t known he’d been crying. Greta shifted closer and gently laid a hand on his shoulder.

“Yes, you can,” she reassured. Then more sternly, “I’m no fool, girl. I know your sentinels have surrounded this house, and if anything happens to her, my head will be the cost.” To Asterin–she was talking to Asterin.

The blonde-haired witch stiffened.

“She is not just  _ your _ queen,” Greta said, facing Asterin. “Now go and find me Alia. The young one needs help, and I can think of no hands more skilled at removing arrows than hers.” When Asterin didn’t move, she added, “The queen is safe with me.”

Dorian could taste the truth in her words. And as if she could, too, Asterin left. Greta placed her hand on Dorian’s head, pressing her thumb into the center of his forehead.

“Let her go now. I speak the truth, no harm will come to the queen while she’s in my care.” And all at once a cooling, warming calm flowed from where the witch’s thumb touched his skin. It cascaded down him like a gentle summer breeze chasing away his fears and anxieties and memories. His spirit calmed, his mind cleared. 

He stood and laid Manon on the cot. The loss of contact was excruciating.

Greta gently put her hands on Manon’s head. 

“Tell me what happened.” So he did. And when he was done he realized that he was standing too close, that his hands had started trembling again, and that he’d started shifting on his feet.

He thought about the witch he’d beheaded. His stomach roiled, and he looked for a safe place to be sick.

“Young one,” Greta said, her words like the soothing touch of a mother’s love. He calmed. “Would you help me?”

“Yes.”

“Take her boots off and her socks.” Dorian limped to the end of the cot and did as he was told. When he was done, he looked to Greta. She sat on the stool, eyes closed, and was resting her hands on Manon’s head–as if the contact allowed her to see through the skin.

He felt his hands begin to tremble.

“The rest of her clothes now.” He looked at Manon, indeed she was filthy. Covered in blood and sweat and dirt. “Don’t be shy. Just gentle.” And so he was. 

It was strange to take Manon’s clothes off her limp body. So different than all the other times he’d stripped her. He found no pleasure this time. Not as each removed piece of cloth revealed more blood splattered skin, more bruising. He tried his best not the jostle her. Tried his best to slide the clothing off and down the length of her. Pulling them over her head was not an option.

Finally, she lay before them, naked and bruised and bloody, in nothing but her undergarments. Greta slid her hands to Manon’s shoulders, her torso, her stomach–she paused over the scars.

Dorian’s stomach tightened and squirmed. He didn’t want to know about what she might detect there. What  _ he _ might have wanted her to detect there– _ under different circumstances _ .

Greta’s eyes were still closed. After a moment, she moved her hands back to lay them on Manon’s head.

“Rub her feet,” she said. Dorian looked at her. Then he began running his hands over Manon’s bare feet. Back and forth and up and down–looking for knots and careful not to touch any bruises. They were tiny and cold and pale. He hadn’t realized just how much he’d needed to touch her. Needed to let her know that he was with her. To know that _ she  _ was still with him.

“You can talk to her if you want. She can hear you.”

Dorian’s bottom lip began to tremble as he fought his tears. Was it that bad? Had his magic not done enough that the witch was telling him to say–

“There is fear in you, young one. A great sadness, too,” Greta said. Tears fell from Dorian’s eyes, hitting Manon’s feet. He hung his head in shame and rubbed the tiny wet drops away. “She has not spoken her last words to you. But your touch, your voice, it will keep her anchored to use while she’s in the Darkness. Reassurance from a loved one is what we all crave in times like these. What we all need, even when we think we don’t.”

Her words again caressed him, like a kiss to the face filled with a mother’s love. He let out a sob, and said, “I do not know if she considers me a loved one.”

“Why do you say that, young one?” She was gently rocking back and forth, hands cradling Manon’s cheeks, her eyes still closed. Dorian shrugged.

“I told her I loved her once, and she’s never said it back.” Greta chuckled, and Dorian’s face heated with embarrassment. He didn’t know why he’d told her that.

“You look for words from one who only knows how to show.”

He didn’t know what to say, but he didn’t have to. A second later, the door opened, and a young looking witch with thick, voluminous dark curls entered. Dorian quickly looked away, wiping his eyes.

“Alia, the young one has an arrow logged in his thigh. A cut on his shoulder, and a deep wound in his chest.” Dorian looked down–indeed he was cut across the chest–and bleeding. He’d had no idea.

“Up with you then,” Alia said. Dorian stared from Manon to Greta to Alia.

“He’s not going anywhere,” Greta said, running a finger down Manon’s too pale cheek. “He’ll be right back.” Dorian blinked.

The Wise Woman still sat there. Eyes closed, rocking slightly as she shifted her hands along Manon’s face and head. Alia touched his shoulder. He jumped.

“Come on then,” she said. Dorian squeezed Manon’s feet then moved behind Greta to the cot opposite Manon’s. He had not noticed it when they’d entered. Had not noticed it at all.

“Take your tunic off, please. And any undershirt you might be wearin’,” Alia said. He did. He glanced at Asterin who was standing guard near the door. She was staring at the cot, as if she, too, hadn’t seen it.

“I’m afraid I’ma have to cut your trouser leg off. Hope you don’t mind,” Alia said. “We’ve got a few men and women skilled in sewin’, they can fix ‘em if you like?” Dorian nodded. She cut the leg off his trousers, fully exposing the arrow. It was oozing slightly, but most of the blood had dried. He felt what was left of his magic spark and hum around it. 

He looked away.

Alia grabbed a rag from within a pot of boiling water Dorian had not noticed was over the fireplace. She waited for it to cool and then began wiping the blood off the deep wound on his chest. He looked over her shoulder at Manon. Then at Asterin–who’d gone rigid as she stared at the fireplace.

“Could you take a deep breath and exhale real big for me?” Alia said.

“Pardon?”

“You know, exhale,” she demonstrated, “real big like that.” Confused, Dorian did as the younger witch asked. As he exhaled, he felt a sharp pain in his leg and then–

Alia was pressing the hot cloth to his thigh, the arrow having been dropped on the floor. Dorian just stared.

“Told you she was the best,” Greta said, still sitting with her back to them.

“How did you do that?” Asterin said, picking the bloody arrow off the floor.

“Practice,” Alia smiled. “Throw that thing in the fire for me, will ya?”

Asterin narrowed her eyes, glancing from Dorian’s leg to the still whole arrow in her hand. Dorian did, too. He didn’t know how the witch had pulled it out without causing more damage. Without cutting off the tip or the spikes at the end.

“I saw your raw magic,” Alia went on, as she cleaned his wounds. “You must be pretty drained if these cuts haven’t yet healed, right?”

“Alia,” Greta warned.

“Oh, right, sorry. The Wise Women say it’s rude to just ask people about their magic. Especially so soon after it’s return.”

Dorian shrugged. “It’s all right,” he said. “I didn’t know it was rude.” Dorian didn’t tell her how drained he was. Still didn’t know how that information might be used.

A few minutes later, Dorian was all bandaged up. His leg, shoulder and chest were wrapped in clean, dry cloth, and Alia had put something that looked and smelt similar to moss in his wounds to staunch the bleeding and ward off infection. Then she’d left, taking the bloody clothes– _ his pants included _ –with her. She’d told him she’d find him a pair of trousers to wear while his were being cleaned and repaired. Said she’d find something for the queen, too.

He thanked her, and wrapped his waist in a blanket.

“You there, scowling by the door.” Asterin cocked her head at Greta. “Come. Help me clean the queen.” Asterin’s face softened, and both she and Dorian moved to help.

“You, who is not her husband, did I ask for your help?” Dorian stilled, then stepped back.

Asterin made quick work of removing the rest of Manon’s clothing and cleaned her up. When she was done, she covered Manon in a blanket and went back to standing by the door.

“Young one,” Greta said. “Come here. Let me have a look at you.” Greta motioned to a second stool besides her own– _ as if it had been there the whole time _ . Dorian eyed it but took a seat. The Wise Woman removed her hands from Manon, opened her eyes, and turned to look at Dorian.

He hadn’t noticed how shockingly green her eyes were.

“Leave us,” Greta said. Behind her back, Dorian saw Asterin raise an eyebrow. “That wasn’t a question, Asterin Blackbeak.” Asterin looked like she might be contemplating murder, but when she caught Dorian’s eyes, her expression softened.

“I’ll be right outside.” Dorian nodded. She left.

Greta place a hand on the bandages circling Dorian’s chest. 

“This is a deep wound, young one.” She closed her eyes. “It’s hard to ignore wounds this deep, yet you managed to do just that.” Dorian felt a pulse of warmth from her hand. It brushed gently against the magic in him–not to rile, but to soothe. 

He blinked, his eyes felt heavy.

Greta closed her eyes and moved her hands to cradle his cheeks, then his neck. He did not flinch at the touch. Greta hummed.

“What?” he said. She opened her eyes, and Dorian thought she could see too much, too deeply into him.

“Sometimes, young one, we give the ones we love our bodies and our hearts, but we do not  _ trust _ them with our wounds and our broken pieces. Happiness made only of beautiful exteriors and pretty words is hollow and unfinished. It is the ugliness of souls, the festering wounds we carry, and the darkness in our hearts, that compliment the beauty and allow it to shine.”

Dorian didn’t know what to do, what to say, but he tasted– _ felt _ –the truth in her words. Something in him eased, a pain he’d not known he’d been carrying.

“You’re going to be all right, young one,” Greta said, standing up. She pat him on the back, rubbing it slightly. He tried not to lean into her touch. 

No one had ever touched him like that, like a mother. And a part of him wanted to tell her that. Wanted to tell her why he’d felt so lonely all these years. Why he’d drown himself in pleasure, taking bedmate after bedmate, and why he’d spent so much time caring for his dogs. He wanted to tell her how it felt to be too helpless to save Sorscha and how he’d vowed to never be that weak again. He wanted to tell her what it felt like to be violated over and over and over again by that Valg. And he wanted to tell her about the first time he’d truly wanted to die–

If only to know what it might feel like to have Greta’s arms around him. To be hugged by someone whose touch felt like a mother’s love. Something he’d never known, or had long since forgotten.

He wanted to tell her what it’d felt like beheading that witch, what it felt like when he’d realized he’d done the same thing as his father–the father he’d killed. His stomach roiled. 

Greta rubbed his shoulder–the contact somehow soothing his anxiety.

“I am not the one you need to trust your burdens with, young one.” She jerked her chin in Manon’s direction, then went to the door. “I’ve other patients to attend. Watch over this one.” She winked, then was gone.

Dorian moved closer to Manon’s cot, choosing the kneel on the floor rather than sit on the stool. It allowed him to get closer. His leg barked beneath him, but he ignored the pain. 

He leaned forward and ran a hand through her hair. The other, he bent in half–so that he could gently run the backs of his fingers over the side of her face. He leaned in and rubbed his temple against hers.

“Come back to me, witchling,” he whispered. “Please.”

He did this for a while, until he could no longer keep his eyes open. So he laid his head on the pillow, between her head and shoulder, and laced one of his hands through her hair to cradle her head. He kissed the bare skin of her collar bone.

_ Please be all right, please be all right, _ he pleaded silently to whomever might be listening.

He closed his eyes, inhaling deeply of her. She smelt like autumn wind, like citrus blooms–

_ Like home, _ he thought.  _ She smells like home. _

***

Dorian’s magic woke him.  _ Wake up,  _ it seemed to purr. He did. And not a moment too soon.

Manon stirred. Dorian pulled his head from her pillow–eyes adjusting to the light. The sun had set and the only light in the room was coming from the fire. She blinked up at him.

“Dori–what happened? Where am I?” Her voice was quiet, her throat dry. He ran his thumbs and the backs of his fingers along her cheeks. He smiled.

“You took a blow to the head. We brought you to one of the Crochan healers. You’re safe now.” She blinked at him a few more times, then looked around–confused. “You’re safe,” he said again. He heard the rustle of sheets as she moved to assess the damage to her body.

“I don’t remember,” she breathed. She moved her head and winced, giving a small cry. “Everything hurts.”

“You fell from the saddle.” She closed her eyes and groaned as if remembering. “Everyone is all right. Abraxos, the Thirteen. A few Crochan’s lost their lives, but that’s it.” She opened her eyes and looked at him. Then his face, his bare chest–

“Where are your cloth– _ you’re hurt _ .” She winced as she moved a bruised arm from beneath the blanket to rest a hand on his bicep. He was still crouched over her. She ran her eyes over the parts of him she could see.

“I’m fine,” he said. Still she craned her neck to look at him. “Hey”–he dipped his face to line up their eyes, stroking her cheeks–”I’m fine. I promise.”

He knew the moment she believed him because relief swept through her. Causing her bottom lip to wobbled, her hand to tighten on his arm. She looked away from him, blinking rapidly.

Dorian nuzzled her and said, “Don’t cry. Please, don’t cry. We’re okay.” She let out a sob and turned her face to his–holding it there so that she might nuzzle him, too.

“I thought I was dead. Thought I would never see you, or the Thirteen, again.” A few tears slipped from Dorian’s eyes.

“I would follow you into the Darkness, witchling. I’d never let you go alone.”

“I heard you,” she said. Dorian pulled back slightly to see her. “I don’t know… but I heard you, felt you. I was scared you’d leave and I’d–” She shuddered. Dorian knew what she was describing. That feeling of being lost without the other. He wasn’t sure what to call it, but he knew they were somehow two pieces of the same whole.

He wiped her tears and kissed her mouth. Once, twice, thrice. 

_ Greta had been right, _ he thought. He didn’t need to hear her say she loved him, to know that she did. To know that she was just as scared of losing him as he was of losing her.

“I thought I’d lost you,” he whispered. His breath hitched. “I don’t want to lose you. I’ve lost so much already. I don’t–” he took a deep breath and buried his face in her neck–”there are things I want to tell you. About me, my life. I didn’t think it mattered if I never told you, but after today…” he shook his head. “I need– _ want _ –to trust you with the things that I’m ashamed of. The things that haunt me.”

She stoked his hair and kissed the top of his head.

“If you want to tell me, I want to listen,” she whispered. “And maybe I will tell you about the things that I’ve kept to myself, the secrets I’ve never trusted anyone to keep.”

“I love you,” he said, kissing her collarbone. He picked his head up and kissed her neck. “I love you.” Then her cheek. “I love you.” Then her temple. “I love you.” Her nose. “I love you.” And finally her mouth. “I love you.”

She wrapped her hands around his neck to hold him to her so that he wouldn’t see the tears that fell, but Dorian pulled back. He wanted to see, wanted her to trust him with that. And so she did. Her arms fell away from him, and she did not try to cover or hide her face as she cried beneath him. 

And cried and cried and cried.

“Witchling,” he whispered, wiping tears from one of her cheeks. “You’re beautiful.”

When she was done crying, he helped her sit up.

A pitcher of water and a glass just happened to be sitting on a table near the door. Dorian was starting to think that the Crochans either had very good cloaking magic, or they were somehow able to materialize things into existence. But as Manon took the glass of water from him, he decided he’d think about that later.

She drank three glassfuls before she leaned into him–too tired to keep drinking, too tired to hold herself up.

He didn’t mind as he sat on the edge of the cot and wrapped an arm around her. He was careful not to pull the blanket that kept her covered.

“Lie down with me,” she said. He did. The cot was small for two, but they managed. Managed–because Manon tucked herself under Dorian’s arm and into his chest. She’d never done that before. Not even on the nights they’d shared a bed after touching one another.

She ran a hand over the bandage on his chest.

“This wound is deep,” she said. He kissed the top of her head and covered her hand with his.

“It’s healing quickly.” 

A moment passed.

“You know,” he said. “I think this is the first time we’ve ever been naked in a bed together and have managed to kept our hands to ourselves.”

Manon snorted and said, “You ruin everything, princeling.” She pressed a kiss to his bare chest and they both fell asleep. 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm PropShopHannah on tumblr


End file.
